Has it been a year? Yes, it has.

03Jul10

Have 5000 words of some story I’ve been cooking up. I’ve been working with 3rd person because I tend to follow the same voice structure for 1st, which would be fine if I were writing a series of noir novels but I’m not.

Here goes.

Marcus stood in front of the doors of Mr. Ares’ office for quite some time. While not quite long enough to elicit the utmost attention of the security guards wandering the complex, but long enough for the secretary past the glass doors to motion him inside. It’s not like she hadn’t seen it before, the wary standing outside ‘neath the verandah; some were contemplating the fleeting fascination of the wager, others were holding off the inevitable walk on through the doors toward promises of victory and the ever present thought of ruin. Marcus was here with purpose, his wistful daydreams of power were to become reality today.

“Pleased to meet you, have a seat. I’ll alert Mr. Ares that he has a client.” Standard secretary speak, curt and congenial. Her voice was as satin smooth as her name placard suggested, Velveteen. He did as he was told, he had a seat and she followed through with her promise. Some low voice emanated a response, too low for anyone but the receptionist to get the specifics but the tone and length suggested something along the lines of “I’ll be with him shortly”. Marcus busied himself with a magazine from a small coffee table. Things were going hunky-dory in Middle-East and the president was facing a minor scandal, of course this was a year back so that prescient sort of irony took the forefront of Marcus’s mind but he leafed through it as interestedly as he could, reading up on some minor innovations that never really found their footing in the annum following. Marcus sank into the hold of the almost-comfortable armchair, anxiousness depositing into the hard rock of determination in the pit of his stomach; still just as heavy, not nearly as consuming.

From his throne Marcus felt the whoosh of air followed by a light tapping on the wooden door that separated the waiting area from Ares’ inner-office sanctum. Marcus looked up from his magazine and saw a man, mid-thirties and Mediterranean features. “Come on in and have a seat. Let’s see what you have to say.”

The inside of the office wasn’t anything particularly special, your basic television-lawyer setup. Bookcases for show, file-cabinets for function, everything was there to browbeat you into giving your best offer. Marcus felt himself flush, almost erotically; he’d heard it secondhand and figured this must be the god-glow, the aura of power and virility that surrounded every supreme. If anything, this only steadied his thoughts as he prepared to lay his case out before the veritable god of war.

In his pocket Marcus had a folded piece of paper, it evolved rapidly from the scrawled piece of parchment his 16 year old self wrote condemning the unjust society that so often plagues adolescence to its current state. Typed neatly on acid-free paper and in utilitarian font Marcus listed, bullet-point style, his plan along with the self-imposed rules and standards he set against himself. Nothing should be simple; progress should be from the strength of the human spirit through adversity. Fully aware of the hypocrisy resonating between his personal credo and his current actions, he relied on the old gamblers’ chestnut: Risk big win big.

Mr. Ares took the piece of paper and with a gentle flick the 92 bright thickened to a parchment, the light creases evening out. The words so neatly typed lay tendrils across the page, weaving an intricate calligraphy through one another, seemingly undecipherable in their beauty but wholly legible. Further text bled through nothingness and onto the page; the details of the contract from the god’s side of things. Ares smirked at his own doing, but even more so at what this mortal wanted. Too often it was servants of world leaders, mercenaries and other men of ill conceit who brought contracts wrought by lawyers of the greatest means. Too often did his touch set these contracts ablaze and he stare see these would be warriors out of his office. But here, a mortal of the humblest quality, is a man who wagers his soul for his dreams, an ephemeron of bloodied spirit willing to bring war against a nation for no other reason than to bring others spectacle and meaning. Ares signed.

The godglow was overcame by a much different sensation, a buzzing as if throughout his blood wrought his body as he momentarily lost consciousness. In his downed state of mind he could see nothing but light, an other-worldly aura that shone through all his thoughts. When he awoke Velveteen was applying a cool salve to his head, scented of lavender and something caught in the periphery of all smells he’d ever witnessed. Finally gathered of his senses, Marcus attempted to raise himself up, with the Ares’ hand there for support. At last on his feet, he was greeted with a firm yet friendly handshake as Ares spoke. “It’s been fantastic doing business with you. Barring anything drastic, I shall be seeing you in seven years. Don’t make me regret this.” Ares knew he wouldn’t bemoan this boon, in seven years the mortal realm would be free to move on its own accord, free from the yoke of his kind…should things work in his favor. “’Vette, can you see this man out?”

Velveteen had been resting against the far wall, having already put whatever she had out away. She walked as daintily has she had dabbed Marcus’s head. Still weak on his feet, the secretary helped him walk out of the office, the doors opening in front of him and closing behind him on their own accord. Setting him down gingerly on the sofa next to the exit, ‘Vette rushed behind her desk and mixed together a quick draught to settle the energy currently coursing through the oath-maker’s body. In and instant she was back at his side, handing him, again gingerly, a Dixie cup containing a pungent-smelling yet otherwise clear liquid. Her caution in giving him the container was well needed as the instant it entered his hands he felt the cold warmth of power swirling throughout it, as if he were to drop the cup there would be an explosion. ‘Vette stated briefly “Drink” and that he did. Instead of the predicted removal of his lower face from his body form the expected blast, it went down smooth like a liquid antacid, complete with the chalky aftertaste.

The coolness of it was immediate, as was the instantaneous rejuvenation. Velveteen simply smiled and went back to her desk. He’d done it, Marcus had finally made the pact and the realization that he now had to fulfill it struck him. He’d dreamt of this moment for years past, and now here it is and he has no clue where to start. Standing up gently, he walked out of the building, the electricity of emotion building in his fingertips as he reached out his hands to the cars around him.

Marcus could feel the pulse of the air around him, each individual element in his ken, each doing his bidding. With a tensing of his fingers he oxygenated the fuel in each of the 8 cars in the lot. Chirping loudly with his lips they exploded in a deafening boom, each of suites’ windows in the lot shattered, save for the god of wars’. Another whistle and the fires died out immediately, the cars rebuilt themselves, shrapnel flying back to their spots, slicing back through the air to their respective vehicle. Smirking he made his way to the bus stop and started his journey.

èèè

Clever kids made it far in life; clever kids got jobs after college and made something of their lives. Clever kids got wives and mortgages, children they don’t beat and secretaries they sleep with. Clever kids were clichéd, trite, petty and oh so politically correct; clever kids were boring. Davis was not clever. Davis was not clever but he saw things for how they were. He could divine his way past the bullshit and see the words meant, barbs and all. It didn’t get him far in life, it hardly does, but it made him happy. In the ten years since the kingdom had sprung up in the rockies and society went to shit, he’d been happy. Not that society went to terminal-level, end stage shit, just priorities changed and people weren’t quite alright with that. People started expressing their dreams, trying to make them reality, seeking out the gods or whatever they were for some sort of quick fix to all their woes. The king set this precedent, the king and his kingdom and it was the sort of thing Davis didn’t pay any mind to. Davis dealt with Davis problems and it was precisely a Davis problem that got him involved in this whole mess.

He’d slept in, he’d never done that before. Even when the power went out he’d still wake up with time to spare to make to the factory. Only 28 he was one of the younger guys there, not quite as much the modified burly get-the-job-done type, not yet, but muscular enough to catch the eyes of those into that sort of thing. Rough hands, but not overly calloused, rugged face years away from haggard, Davis was the ghost of Christmas past for the largely mid-to-late forty year olds that were his coworkers. Because of all these things it was much of a surprise to him, more the slacker type, to see his fellow employees standing outside the pale green double-doors instead of deftly working. His hair still in disarray and clothes wrinkled, despite his half-minute efforts to look personable as if anyone cared but you gotta at least attempt to look professional, he reasoned.

So here were these well-seasoned men, huddling in a frightened mass as he drove into the lot, frightened himself at getting a reprimand in spite of his otherwise good attendance. His ears shone a beacon into his hungover mind as the sound and feel of the sand beneath his hard-soled shoes ground agony throughout the bones of his joints and skull. By golly gee, from further inspection of the scene it looked to be a chemical spill of some sort, some dark liquid pooling beneath the bottom of the doors, locked with the same-old familiar array of padlocks he’d have to wrestle with every time he had to close or open-up shop. His surveillance, however, was interrupted by a low growl emanating within his locked playground, almost-human-almost-jungle-cat, and he understood the fear in the old men’s eyes.

“Cougar?” He called out. It wasn’t a common occurrence in these parts, but every now and then some wildcat would jimmy its way through some cracked window, loose siding or open cellar door and give someone a scare. No fatalities really, they’re more scared of us et cetera, worst that’s really happened was one of those big muscular kittens jumping a cleaning woman at the local elementary, drawn to the sound of the vacuum cleaner, giving her a mild heart attack and a few deep scratches on her back.

“Possibly,” the toweringest of the group replied, Owen. About forty-seven and six foot eight, he was the de facto ‘leader’ of the non-management types. “When we got here the doors wouldn’t open, hear all the growlin’ an’ such and decided to lock them from our side. Was about to call animal control when stuff started spilling out. Figured the thing’d knocked over some of the tanks. Hazardous materials should be here in an hour or so.” Davis nodded his head in assurance that he understood the situation, though suspicious of the lack of actual management types here.

“Where’s the others?” craning his head in the direction of the management trailer, Davis gave an annoyed expression on his face. While the workers got the distinct pleasure of working in the air-conditioning-less building, the management types got to relax in their cool little trailer after the attempted renovations on their previous workroom in the main arena of employment.

“Maddy’s home, her kid’s sick, Vick’s still in Chattanooga, freak-storm or what-have-you has got him stuck there after Saturday’s conference. We’re flapping in the breeze here until noon when Maddy checks in on us.” Not that this hasn’t happened before, the managementlessness not the cougar and the hazardous chemicals, but it was a rare occurrence that would require an audit (they were due for one anyway) afterward.

The liquid gathering underneath the door grew in a sudden swell coupled with a frantic growling and clawing at the door. This cat wanted out and was fighting the fumes. Funny thing though, it occurred to Davis, they couldn’t smell a thing other than wet earth. Nothing caustic wafted their way, none of the acrid smelling chemicals they used sparingly accosted their nasal cavities. In fact the chemical monitors weren’t even whirring their sirens that they whirred so incessantly if the chemical concentration reached a certain threshold in the air. Low incessant chirps and yellow for “evacuate slow and orderly”, high air-raid bellows and bright red for “you’re screwed”. There was none of that, even with power outage the batteries would have lasted days.

Leaving the crowd he made his way around the building. Everything was looking according-to-code and by-the-books. No vehicles parked too close, nothing leaning against the walls, clean paint and unbroken windows, nothing barred their boat-building fortress. It was practically perfect in every way, a hearty building built in the style of a barn, a multimillion one at that. Larger pieces roll in and out on a daily basis; they worked the intertwining wood and metal, painted them in expensive chemicals and sent them on their way. Savior boats were primarily commercial, they had a few private contracts but mainly for people who weren’t as rich enough to afford the elite professional type of boat that their better off neighbor could afford. Still they prided themselves in their workmanship and did their best damned job, not quite rivaling the luxury of your Saudi kings and neo-Czars, but enough for Joe Sixshooter and his marvelous six-pack to impress young women anywhere with enough water to float one of these things. Savior built tour boats, boats for fishing companies, mainly east-coast outfits and primarily through contract. While Savior didn’t pay their workers exorbitant amounts of money for their learned experience and the prevailing lung damage, it was enough to live somewhat comfortably in this small Kentucky town. It was a good enough looking factory; after all, it was the logo on the company card. Bright green barn-looking-thing with the stereotypical hills and large birch or larch or something towering above, except for the hills and rising sun behind it, all parts were a accurate facsimile of the truth. With the tree he found exactly how that damned cat got them, how some ferocious feline felicitously flung sabots into their heurs.

Running back to his car he grabbed a gas-mask and ran back to the tree, trying to see if he could find a way up that didn’t involve him falling to his death. Before he was ready to make his ascent the small voice in the back of his mind, ingenuity in the face of stupidity, cried out that there were ladders propped up behind the executive trailer. To the rest of the workers he looked like a madman running hither and thither with odds and ends. It all made sense in his mind as it was his only goal to make it up to the roof of their workplace and see exactly what was going on in there. The ladder reached about three-quarters of the way up the height of the building, he’d have to use the tree but he’d have an advantage on his way up. Resting it against what he felt to be the sturdiest angle he deftly made his way up the rungs and felt the firm grip of wood in his grasp as he raised himself from the ladder. He’d made it up to a branch that had access to the roof before the vertigo really set in. Through his hands and feet he could feel the small movements in the wind as the tree minutely swayed. No time to stop now, he grabbed a higher branch to keep him steady as his feet shuffled along the lower, most secure one. He felt the branches lurch down and backward and saw his perception tilt as the tree tried to seemingly shake him loose. His workboots had enough grip not to lose their footing as his head reeled from the lack of control he had and the closeness he came to tumbling 20 or so feel on his back; possibly fatal, most definitely disabling and in all likelihood not covered by workman’s compensation.

Feeling his weight in the pit of his stomach he adjusted his arms and hugged the top branch, changing his center of gravity to one not so precariously hung over nothingness. When his world righted itself he further trundled along until he saw the sheen of the roof not a few feel below him, rising to meet the branches where they ended. Eying this new stable ground he jumped off with a slight clatter, probably would have started the cat inside but from the position of the windows the animal would have to be a damned trapeze artist to make its way back up, else it would have and not be trapped to begin with. He approached the window with ease as he lifted the mask from around his neck and placed it on his face, fumes rise and settle regardless of their toxicity. Last thing he’d want would be to die from lung edema after getting a whiff from some corrosive chemical concoction mixed by this felinus chemistrus. From the looks of it this cat wasn’t your normal cat, not from what he could tell by the damage to the window. There didn’t seem to be any pre-existing damage before and last he checked there were no freak brick storms ravaging the countryside. Were it not so high up he’d have sworn a human had done this had they wished to cut open their fists. Something had, at the very least, as there was a smattering of blood on the lower edges as from what Davis guess had been where the cat slunk its way in onto a steel beam that ran along near the top of the ceiling of the building. From there it’d found a way down some crates or had used it muscular body to affect its impact to something slightly less jarring. Large cats are supposed to land feet-first too, right? From the blood on the edge of the broken window it appeared the cat had stuck itself pretty badly during its intrusion, the dried dark blood on the beam below seconded that notion as it shone in the morning sun. Also what shone in the morning sun, what he could catch in the corner of his vision was a button, a brass one that clung to a piece of blood-treated denim.

It made no sense; a cat couldn’t carry a person up here while climbing a tree. His mind shifted toward a darker place, at the thought of a child’s lifeless body in the maw of a mighty cougar as it ascended the tree he’d half-way climbed. No, not even that. He would have noticed the blood on the tree and on the ground if that were the case. It had to be something different. Perhaps the cat had worn a denim jacket? Maybe it was building a nest and was out searching for clothes? These thoughts weren’t leading anywhere and had only given rise to the thought of some monstrous flying cougar wearing some 80’s throwback jacket, snapping its fingers while fishing a loosie from its pocket. Oh, I be it thinks it’s so fucking cool.

This image in his mind, this imaginary lapse was interrupted by a larger, more menacing growl than he’d heard before as he looked down to see the cat fly. But not on wings, not by some imaginary force, it was flying as a baseball flies, thrown from the wrist of something that could throw one hell of a speedball. The cat hit the wall and bounced, landing a few feet below and a few feet away from the now-marked position of where the wall bunted it. Davis kept on watching as whatever it was made its way across the pools of chemicals that littered the ground. This…creature, whatever it was, lacked form. In his eyes it was nothing but a blur, a blur that left sizzling footprints through the chemical-laden mud. His mind screamed at him, not to get away but for understanding at what he was looking at. It drastically needed to know what this was; it was drawn to it out of curiosity. It didn’t feel like some sort of camouflage, it was like someone had smudged his eye and the only way to wipe that hindrance away would be to get closer. When he finally came to his senses he realized he no longer felt the sun at his back, he was sitting on the beam, inside the building and just below the broken window but too far below to make his way back up without a good jump and grabbing on to a broken pane of jagged glass. He was going to have to make his way down and to one of the exits, through this new lair of this speck-in-the-eye beast, this sight-siren that was now consuming the flesh of this mountain lion that could now be seen in a more sympathetic light. He watched as chunks of flesh disappeared from the corpse and into this annoying blur. He was terrified.

è

It was that infectious curiosity that drove him against his fear, to see that mirage of beast be turned to something either more understandable or a figment of imagination. He dropped down from his perch on to a wider beam below him, then again to an elevated platform where they stored mundane materials. He was still about 10 feet above the ground, from his position the clarity of the beast was the same as from up above, in fact it was ever more indiscernible. The way it bulged and swayed he could make out that it was fairly muscular; it lumbered so it must have a high body weight, and the way the sunlight caught wisps of its non-descript nature it appeared to have some sort of mane around what he believed to be its head.

The smell of rotting flesh—difficult to divine through the acrimonious odors from spilled toxins and their corresponding vapors—that is what drove him from his stupor; it had been nesting here since the weekend began. In the corner, on the ground opposite from him laid a heap of animal carcasses. More than that he could see exactly what he had passed off before, the bodies of what he thought to be several children wearing mangled clothes ripped by what he assumed to be either the razor sharp maw of this beast or the razor sharp claws it used. The logic in this, the simple fact that these children were brought here by the monster, that they didn’t simply wander in after a leisurely climb up a 30 foot—he’d later ask Maddy for the proper species of the plant—tree, this fact made him realize that he wasn’t as safe from the beast as he’d imagined.

The thought of flying mountain cats swooped into his mind again as he gave thought to this beast having wings, but the blurs weren’t right. Sure, it could have folded them in toward its body, but the way it carried itself, two legs not four, made him reassess the situation. This was something created by man and but not given form, this was the monster that lurked in closets of children and some god had put it upon itself to bring it into reality. Here he was, watching some kid’s boogeyman chow down on cat-food. If it weren’t for the fact that the child (and likely a friend of his or two) was probably one of the few corpses having the worst play date ever, he would have reveled in it. Instead he continued watching, wondering how the hell he was going to escape.

èè

When it comes to monsters, the mythic or the manmade, it always had to deal with the gods. Before the issues became public they were things of urban legend. Some well-intentioned human would ask an ill-thinking proprietor to bring such-and-so into being for some utterly doomed reason, the result was typically ironic—what with the hoisting and the petards and so on—in fashion but left some mythical creature out in the society, their masters’ soul being left in service of the god from which they sought their boon. These things weren’t public knowledge because the whole boon-granting business was the word of tightly pursed mouths, hush-hush skull-and-bones sort of talk. Another thing stopping the insanity of myth from encroaching into the world was that boons were granted with good reason, that is, rarely. Gods granted boons to increase their bearing on the world, they give you power so you can accomplish great things that make people believe further in their concepts. Anteros would help you win your lover’s heart; Hermes would help you pull off the heist of the century; and so forth.

Not that all feats of daring doom were under the influence of some sort of godly boon, just that they were so rare in occurrence that the gods needed a bit of a power boost now and then when they did whatever they did in their heavens. That nature of gods was shrouded in, well, myth. They didn’t abide by any sort of earthly law, when cornered they simply disappeared and they didn’t give interviews. From what the world could figure, or at least logically assume, from these beings were three things. First: they didn’t gain power from people believing in them, but actions belonging to their authority. Secondly: There were no demigods; the tales of god and man having offspring were, in all likelihood, the early recipients of boons. Lastly: the god-glow didn’t have a physical affect on the human body, at least not anything that was measurable by current standards, it was purely mental.

èè

He wasn’t sure how long he watched it, questioning its existence while trying to give it a form that wasn’t so ludicrous. This was a child-killing, cougar eating monstrosity pulled from the aether of a kid’s imagination, it was supposed to look horrifying no so… interesting. You see these pictures of serial killers and you’re disgusted with them, you know their crimes and you just feel ill. But no, here he was watching, taking mental notes on this aberrant creature like some sort of scientist that lives among the apes. Except he was no Jane Goodall, and this ape would likely eviscerate Davis as easily as it did those it had brought to its new domain hadn’t it been for, what he guessed, the fumes of the spilled containers killing its sense of smell.

After what felt like eons he heard a car pull up outside; must have been either animal control or Maddy checking up on them. If it were Maddy she’d wait there until animal control came around, if it were control then they’d open the doors to their quick demise. He could hear talking outside, more people, it was animal control and he doubted their all their tranquilizers and shock batons combined could take something like this down. They’d still need the keys, without those they wouldn’t be able to open up. When you have mass amounts of chemicals like this you lock up tight and keep a tight chain of custody on the keys to open up. The last thing you need is some meth head leaking a cloud of toxic fumes along the interstate, or some kids sneaking in and blowing it all to hell. He glanced back at the children’s bodies and the reality of it started to sink in, surpassing the wonderment by just a little bit.

But they’d seen him go up, didn’t they? They knew he was in here, he wasn’t reporting anything back from where he thought he’d be, atop the roof. While the doors didn’t automatically open from the inside there were keys to unlock them in the break room, should somebody accidentally get locked in. Of course there was the emergency exit out the break room as well, the though occurred to him, he’d been so enamored in watching this thing that he’d forgotten that he could easily escape…should he want to trek across the chemical laden mud, through the realm of the boogeyman. Not that it couldn’t get him up here either, but the idea of going down there seemed more terrifying than his relative safety up here just watching; though if he just stayed up here and let them open up with Maddy’s keys, well that situation would be sub-optimal as well and he couldn’t just yell out “Don’t come in, here there be monsters”, as if they’d be able to comprehend that sentence on the first try and hold back, knowing there was something sinister in here. He had to make for the fire exit, to save him and to save the others.

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